


When the Seasons Stop

by glorious_spoon



Category: Leverage, The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, Other, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26037679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: Eliot Spencer damn well knew better than to get this close to a couple of mortals. But he never expectedthis.(In which Eliot is immortal, the Highpoint Tower break-in goes much, much worse, and it turns out that neither Parker nor Hardison is quite what they seem)
Relationships: Alec Hardison & Parker & Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 33
Kudos: 473





	When the Seasons Stop

**Author's Note:**

> This is just absolutely self-indulgent nonsense. Technically a crossover with The Old Guard, but mostly takes place in the Leverage universe. All you really need to know about the former is that there's a small group of immortals who keep waking up after the first time they die, and for the purposes of this fic, Eliot is one of them.
> 
> Title from 'Bleeding Out' by Imagine Dragons, with a lot of appreciation for [this fanvid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frrUhBVzmDc), which is lovely and hurty and amazing.

There’s nothing new about the bullet punching through Eliot’s lung, nicking an artery and shattering a rib on its way out. He can feel the world start to squeeze and fold in a familiar way, but that’s not what worries him. What worries him is the gasping quality of Parker’s voice over the comms, the shaky way she said _he’s all smashed up inside_ and the trail of blood zig-zagging out to the van.

Sophie’s hands grasp at him, pulling him in. Her eyes are huge and dark with tears, and Eliot can’t get the lung capacity to reassure her. Isn’t sure there’s anything worth reassuring at all when blood is soaking into the floor ( _Hardison will be so mad_ , he thinks stupidly, but it’s Hardison’s blood, his and Parker’s, and they’re sprawled there like broken toys as the van peels away into the street. There are sirens. Nate is swearing fluently and foully in the front as Sophie heaves herself through to drop into the seat beside him).

None of it fucking matters. Eliot’s vision is starting to tunnel, but he can still see Hardison gasping with blood on his lips.

“Did Eliot make it out?”

“Age of the geek, brother,” Eliot rasps, grasping for him, fumbling, fingers slick with blood. Hardison’s long fingers twitch weakly when he grips them. On his other side, Parker’s cold hand slips into his. She’s tilted back against the wall, her shirt stained with dark blood, soaking through to pool beneath her, and she’s already so cold.

 _She’s bleeding out_ , Eliot thinks vaguely, but his body is too leaden and heavy to do anything about it. His thoughts fragment into the thickening darkness, and the last thing he remembers is hoping against desperate hope that this time, _this time_ , he won’t wake up to see the aftermath.

* * *

He comes to choking in silty water, flailing, splashing. Sinks into the dark and maybe drowns a second time before he finally surfaces. His head hits metal, and he gasps in the small pocket of air beneath it, his mind becoming aware bit by horrible bit. He’s died in a lot of bad ways since he took a bullet to the heart in the winter of 1861 and woke hours later face-down and stripped of his guns and boots in the cold Nebraska mud. But this one might just be the worst of them.

It’s too dark to see, but he fumbles until his hands close over a bony wrist, cloth and cold skin. Hardison’s, by the size. And there’s Parker floating to his left, her hair spreading out in the water and tangling around his wrist when he pulls her to him, puts a hand under her nose like he really thinks he’ll feel breathing.

Like there’s more than half a dozen people in the world who could wake up from this.

“Parker,” he rasps. His throat feels raw, and he tells himself that it’s the leftovers from breathing in river water. “Parker. Hardison. Come on. Come _on_.”

There’s no response. They’re cold and limp, floating lifelessly in the icy water, and Eliot can’t pretend that the heat welling up in his eyes is anything other than tears.

“Come on,” he rasps again. “Come on, Parker. Damn it, Hardison, _wake up._ ”

There’s nothing. Just bodies, just Parker’s hair tangled around his fingers and Hardison’s expressive hands gone terribly still. Eliot drives his fist into the side of the van and feels his knuckles break and heal in an instant, and then he ducks beneath the water to check for the front of the van.

It’s empty, and he hopes with a dull, flickering sort of hope that Nate and Sophie at least got out alive. Then he goes back to pull the floating corpses of his dearest friends out through the shattered window, one after another. He loops his arms around them like this is a rescue instead of a recovery and kicks until his head breaks the swift surface of the river.

The water is deep and fast here, and it’s not easy to keep his head above it without letting go of either of his burdens, which he damn well is not going to do. He manages, at the very least, not to drown again before his feet finally find the soft mud in the shallows.

He pulls them both to the shore, scrabbling in the silty mud until they’re above the water line, and then he sinks to the ground and puts his head in his hands. Tries to breathe. Tries _not_ to breathe, maybe, since that’s never been his problem. It doesn’t work, either way. His chest hurts like he can still feel the lingering ache of that bullet from a hundred and fifty-some years ago, but he knows it’s not that. Knows that it’s nothing more than simple grief.

He knows better, is the thing. He knows better than to get too attached. He always knew that his life would encompass both Parker’s and Hardison’s by years, centuries (millennia _,_ if Andy is to be believed, and Eliot believes her because he’s never met another person so fucking _tired_ of it all), but he just. He thought he’d have more time. He thought he’d get to dance at their wedding. He thought he’d get to watch Parker take over the reins from Nate and make Leverage into something lasting and real; he thought he’d get to watch Hardison going on about new computer shit for decades to come, going gray and bent and still leaning over his screens with that brilliant joy. He thought he’d get to welcome their children and watch them grow.

He thought that maybe, someday, he’d trust them both with his secret.

He thought he had more fucking _time_.

Something shifts to his left. Eliot lifts his head listlessly. If it’s cops, he’ll go into custody quietly. If it’s someone looking for trouble, maybe he’ll just let them kill him. Either way, he doesn’t have it in him right now to fight.

It’s neither of those things, though. Instead, Hardison’s body seizes, jerks, and then heaves upright like it’s spring-loaded. He’s hacking and coughing, vomiting murky water, his eyes so wide and wild that Eliot can see the whites all the way around. His hands dig into the mud, then lift to claw at his grimy, bloody shirt.

Cloth parts. Beneath it is bare skin, smooth and completely undamaged. No sign of the shattered bone and pulpy bruising that should be there. Hardison pats at himself frantically and finally _finally_ lifts his head to meet Eliot’s eyes.

“Eliot,” he says, weak and rasping. “We—I thought—”

“Hardison,” Eliot breathes, and for a wild instant he has no idea what to think. Hardison was dead, he was _dead_ , Eliot’s seen more dead bodies than he can count and he knows what they look like. What they feel like. Hardison was dead _._ Which means...

“Parker,” Hardison gasps, and then, “ _Parker_ , where’s Parker,” and before Eliot can even think to speak there’s gasping on the other side of him and Parker’s thready voice saying first Hardison’s name and then Eliot’s.

Eliot drops his head into his hands and laughs until he cries.

* * *

It takes a while to explain it. Or, to be more accurate: it takes a while to get to the closest safehouse that they can be reasonably sure isn’t compromised, which turns out to be one of Parker’s warehouses. She’s got A/C set up somehow, and clothes for both of them—Eliot recognizes the t-shirt she tosses him as one that went missing in the move to Portland all those months ago—and has even rigged up something that could generously be termed shower facilities.

“I thought you didn’t keep any of these anymore,” Hardison mumbles as she steers him to the sprayer that’s zip-tied to a pipe over a wide, shallow trough. The whole thing is brutally utilitarian in a very _Parker_ kind of way.

“You never know when you might need to go to ground. Always be prepared.”

A ragged laugh escapes Hardison’s lips. “Boy Scouts. Cool, cool.”

Parker is busy unbuttoning his shirt; she pulls that off and starts on his pants. Hardison doesn’t squawk any objections about his modesty, which just goes to show how deeply shaken he is; Eliot turns away anyway as both their clothes hit the floor and the water sputters on. He can wait his turn. He once hiked thirty miles on the trail of horse thieves with the remnants of his own guts decorating his clothes; this isn’t even close to the most disgusting he’s ever been.

“Eliot,” Parker says firmly, and he lifts his head. They’re both naked, and he can’t quite stop himself from staring at all that smooth undamaged skin laid bare. Parker’s right shoulder is caked with blood that’s washed her entire side with red, but there’s no bullet-hole now. Beside her, Hardison is steady on his feet, standing easily on a leg that was shattered an hour ago.

They’re both _alive_.

Eliot blinks, then jerks his head to the side a moment too late. “Go ahead. I can wait.”

“Or you could just come here,” Hardison says, with a raw edge of humor. “You look like a drowned rat.”

“Thanks a lot,” Eliot huffs. He considers trying to argue, then finds abruptly that he doesn’t have the energy. He kicks off his boots and starts pulling his clothes off, leaving them in a stinking bloody heap on the floor. Parker and Hardison both watch him in a way that makes him feel weirdly exposed. It’s not prurient, not really. He has a feeling that they’re looking at his naked body the same way he was just looking at theirs. Cataloguing the injuries that should be there, and aren’t.

Drawing some conclusions, maybe, about all of the beatings that he’s walked away from without a limp in the time they’ve known each other.

“You got some explaining to do,” Hardison says, almost apologetically, as he draws Eliot into the tub with them. He keeps a firm grip on Eliot’s elbow like he’s expecting him to bolt, which to be fair isn’t completely outside the realm of possibility. Eliot has imagined stepping into a shower with the two of them more times than he can count, but this particular scenario never featured in his daydreams.

“Yeah,” Eliot admits, closing his eyes. The spray washes over him, rinsing away the blood and river mud, but the panic—that terrible bleak echo of grief—that lingers. “I will. I promise.”

* * *

While Parker and Hardison are getting dressed, he takes one of Parker’s burner phones and goes out behind the building to call Andy.

“I have the new ones,” he says without preamble when she picks up. He knows that she knows what he’s talking about. They’ll have dreamed this, the four of them.

There’s a long pause, and then Andy says, “Good. We’re in Afghanistan. Do you need us there?”

He can hear voices in the distance. It’s impossible to make out the words over the shitty international connection, but even so he recognizes Joe’s laughing cadence. He’s heckling someone; Booker, probably. Nicky has to be there too.

Eliot misses them all so much that it aches. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Nah. I can take care of it.”

“You know them,” Andy says. “Don’t you.”

It’s not really a question.

“Yeah,” Eliot says on a breath of laughter, all the same. “Yeah, you sure could say that.”

There’s a hell of a lot that Andy could say in response, especially after the way everything went down with Eliot and Moreau ten years back, but all she does say, after a slight pause, is, “Well, good. That’ll make it simpler. You can explain about the dreams, but we’ll be in the States by the end of the week.”

Eliot laughs again, more genuinely. “Yeah, okay. It’s— It’ll be good to see you all. I miss you.”

“We miss you too,” Andy says, very gently, and ends the call before Eliot has to find a way to do it.

* * *

When he gets back inside, Parker and Hardison are dressed and sitting at the folding table. Both of them lift their heads as he approaches.

“Where’d you go?” Hardison asks.

“Had to call a friend.” Eliot makes a face. The time for prevarication is over, but that doesn’t mean he has a damn clue how to explain this. Until right now, he’s been the baby of the gang. “Andy, her name is Andy. She’s another one. Like us.”

“Like us, like us, okay,” Hardison says. “What—what does that mean, exactly? We—you got shot. Parker got shot. I had a broken leg. We all—” He shakes his head. “What happened?”

Eliot takes a breath, opens his mouth, closes it again. Finally, bluntly, he says, “You died. We all did.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Hardison says. There’s an uncharacteristic snap to his voice. He sounds genuinely angry for the first time. Scared, too. He sounds scared. Eliot wishes like hell there was anything at all he could do to fix that, but all he has to offer is the truth.

He sighs and says, to Parker, “You got a knife?”

She reaches back without breaking her eerily intent gaze to scoop a switchblade off the table and toss it to him. Eliot plucks it out of the air and opens it, then takes a deep breath, spreads his left hand out, and drives the blade into it until the point emerges from his palm. Blood dribbles onto the floor; Hardison jolts forward with a horrified noise.

Parker is still just watching him, cool-eyed and assessing. He pulls the blade out and holds up his hand so that they can watch the hole he just made heal in seconds.

“Oh shit,” Hardison says faintly. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Parker stares at him a moment longer, then holds out her hand. “Can I do that?”

“It’ll still hurt,” Eliot warns her, but he hands the knife back. She cleans it carelessly on a shop rag, then tests the edge of it thoughtfully.

Hardison rubs a hand over his mouth, then says, carefully, “Babe, please don’t stab yourself. I can’t watch that twice in a row.”

“It would heal, though.” She looks up and fixes Eliot with a burning look. “Right?”

Eliot sighs. “Right.”

She nods slowly. “That wasn’t the first time you died. Was it.”

“Not by a long shot.”

Hardison looks up at that, eyes narrowed. “When _was_ the first time?”

“1861,” Eliot sighs. “I was guarding a mail coach in the Nebraska Territory, and we were attacked, and...”

“Eighteen—eighteen sixty-one. Okay.”

“Sorry.”

“For being old as balls?”

It startles a laugh out of him. “Yeah, I guess.”

“And there’s more of you.” Hardison pauses. “Of us.”

“Yeah. Four—” He pauses, winces. Thinks of Quynh, drowning and drowning under the ocean. Her deaths have been in his dreams for well over a hundred years. She’s been a constant companion, even if he’s never met her and probably never will. “Five more.”

“Are they older than you, or younger?”

“Older. Lots older.”

“So what you’re saying, basically,” Hardison says, “is that we’re immortal.”

“Yeah,” Eliot says dryly, “that was the general gist of it.”

Parker is starting to smile, wild in a way that’s almost inhuman. “Oh, I’m going to jump off the Sears Tower without a harness.”

“Babe,” Hardison says again, but he sounds distracted as he pulls a tablet toward him.

“You’ll still _die_ ,” Eliot tells her.

“Yeah,” she says dismissively, “but I’ll come back. Right?”

“Please don’t jump off the Sears Tower,” Hardison says absently. He chews on his lower lip as he does something on the tablet, shifting lights on the screen reflecting in his eyes. “Okay. Good news, Nate and Sophie are okay. Bad news, Sophie is in the hospital and Nate’s been taken into custody in Highpoint Tower.” He looks up and meets Eliot’s eyes, expression challenging. “We need to get him out.”

Eliot nods, relieved. “Yeah. We do.”

Hardison nods too. He looks a little easier now—with a task at hand, with proof that the others are still alive, with the knowledge that he’s still _him_ , Eliot doesn’t know. “Okay. That’s what we’ll do. And when we’re done we’re gonna come back here and you’re gonna answer _all_ of our questions. Right?”

Eliot considers that moment on the river bank when he thought they both were dead. He considers the interrogation Hardison is going to subject him to, and the batshit insane stunts that Parker is going to pull, and he feels himself smiling, broad and helpless. “Anything you want.”


End file.
